


What Could a Mere Devil Do?

by Espernyan



Series: Ophelia's Yet Unnamed Bloodborne Series [1]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Complete, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Just Trying To Help, Lesbian Character, Ophe has gay feelings for Eileen, What Could Possibly Go Wrong?, character stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espernyan/pseuds/Espernyan
Summary: Ophelia gives Alfred the Cainhurst Summons, and, despite both of them knowing it will end in his death, he goes.It feels woefully familiar; perhaps it is a curse, or the work of some kind of devil?She resolves that this cannot continue, that all the suffering of the Hunt must have a cause. A cause she intends to kill, metaphorically or otherwise. All she can do at present, however, is plot and plan and consider her options.From there, she visits Oedon Chapel, where she spends time with Arianna and Eileen -- things have gone sideways since the Blood Moon rose, but, for now, all is calm, if not well.Take solace in the comfort of the present, as Ophelia does.





	What Could a Mere Devil Do?

The frantic footfalls of a moon-scented Hunter reverberated through the lower portion of the Cathedral Ward, the sound of her boots on the paving-stones reaching the ears of Alfred, the Executioner, some time before the woman’s arrival. Indeed, when the girl stopped, sounds of violence followed – the report of a pistol rang out, once, after which Alfred heard her encounter one of the mutated giants. It was eminently clear that that it _was_ a giant she faced, not only by its great bellowing, but also by the shrieking of stone and steel made by the strokes of its great halberd, and the heavy, muffled _whumps_ of structures being partially demolished by the very same weapon.

The Executioner was not worried for his comrade, uncaring though he may have appeared to an outside observer; the man had the utmost faith in the young woman’s abilities, his confidence was vindicated by the giant’s death knell, a mournful keening which preceded the muted, heavy sound of its body falling to the pavement. A moment later, she was dashing again, her bootfalls resounding more clearly as she drew nearer. She barely seemed to break stride as the whoosh-and-roar of her flamesprayer sounded out, incinerating what sounded to Alfred like one of those odd, slimy creatures, and an oversized bird.

She rounded the corner, covered in blood and soot, her crow’s-feather cape fluttering behind her and her holy, wrapped greatsword over her shoulder, her slightly-scrawny legs carrying her as fast as they could. In fairness, it really was quite fast – fast enough that she collided bodily with the larger man, and might have bowled him over, had he not been twice her size.

With a hearty guffaw, Alfred put his hands on the young woman’s shoulders to steady her, giving her a quick once-over to confirm she hadn’t hurt herself. “Easy there, friend,” he said with a sunny smile, “What’s got you in such a hurry?”

The Hunter’s wavy, pale-gray hair was in as much disarray as it could be after a thorough wetting with giant’s blood, her longest locks brushing sanguine streaks across her shoulders, the small ornament in her hair glistening with red wetness. The snow-white freckles beneath her brilliant-green eyes stood in surprising contrast to her fair skin, and the nervous energy in her bearing stood in _stark_ contrast with what one might expect of the woman who had taken up the mantle of _Hunter of Hunters,_ given her predecessor, the Crow’s, notorious stoicism.

He ran a gloved hand through his own curly blond hair as the girl took a deep breath and a step back. She was, he thought, quite fetching, though the observation was largely academic. Alfred knew her interest was as much in women as his… well, _wasn’t_. Not at the moment, anyways. Perhaps later? He had a master to canonize, after all.

It did occur to Alfred that these sorts of thoughts may well have been an indicator that he simply didn’t fancy women, but he wasn’t particularly concerned with such things. Again, he was rather preoccupied.

She took a moment to set her sword and flamesprayer down on the cobbles, straightened herself up, and, with the sort of speed only a Hunter could muster, abruptly lunged forwards to hug the man.

“Alfred!” She sniffled.

“Ophelia.” He replied, some sort of odd, paternal instinct kicking in, insisting he be a dork. It also drove him to pet her head gently, and to consider draping his holy shawl over her shoulders, irrespective of her having a cloak on already.

“I went to Cainhurst. There were ghosts and gargoyles and undead servants, and Master Logarius-”

Alfred finished for her. “-Was undead as well.”

Ophelia looked up at him, teary-eyed, and managed a small nod. “Yes.”

The nod Alfred gave was solemn, but understanding. “You slew his… remains, I presume? That couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t. Even in death, your master was mighty, and his mastery of the arcane puts mine to shame.” She offered a slight smile. “He would’ve kicked my ass if I hadn’t called upon other Hunters for help.”

“Your prowess is hardly so insignificant, my friend. Have faith in yourself.”

“Mmh.” Ophelia swallowed. “After that, I- I met _her_. Annalise. The Vileblood Queen.”

Alfred stiffened.

“I- she almost _had_ me, Al.”

“That wretched siren,” he spat, “it is most fortunate that you managed to avoid her thrall.”

“I took this and left.” Ophelia reached into her coat, producing a sealed envelope from her breast pocket. An unopened summons to Cainhurst Castle, addressed to no-one in particular. “I struck her-” She tapped her beloved sword with the toe of a boot to indicate it, “-but she wasn’t upset. She didn’t even fight back.” Unbidden, the tears that had been welling in her eyes began to run down her cheeks. “She just seemed so… sad.”

Alfred chuckled and placed a hand on her head. “You are a sympathetic spirit.”

Something about that struck her oddly, and she realized she must’ve been. More than just being compassionate, people were compassionate to her, too. Eileen had patted her head and encouraged her from the beginning, Arianna had been sweet and kind to a fault, Iosefka was a saint, the _Doll_ \- gods, the Doll was something else.

When they’d slain the Cleric Beast, Gascoigne had patted her head before they parted ways. As far as she knew, that had been the man’s last sane act. It had left an odd feeling in her gut. A horrible, wrenching feeling, as if the fist of some unseen god had gathered up her innards and given them a twist.

She peered up at her friend, silhouetted as he was against the evil red glare of the blood-moon. He was cast in shadow in that moment, the lantern dangling from her belt obscured by her posture. His eyes were on her, she knew, and, though she could not see them, she could sense a darkness there. Like that which hangs betwixt the stars.

An invisible hand took the time to wring her insides.

How long could this carry on? This night, this Hunt – this curse?

Ophelia thought she might like to meet the devil, whatever form he might take, that she could pay the fiend his due. For surely only a devil could have wrought this much suffering upon the world. Upon Yharnam.

If she gave him the envelope, he would die. Or worse.

But that was his choice to make, wasn’t it?

She offered him the letter. “If you take this, you’ll die. I can feel it.” The words felt strange as tumbled from her mouth, like the ravings of a lunatic, but… what was a moon-scented Hunter, if not the product of lunacy in the first place?

This, Alfred accepted without so much as a second thought, giving a grateful nod in return. Ophelia understood. He had a duty to the Church, to his master, to the family he had made for himself and then lost. What was a little thing like death, in the face of such potent motivators?

“Well, then,” said the Executioner, “I must away, to that accursed Castle Cainhurst.” He took a step back, the paleblood moonlight illuminating his form, and placed a reassuring hand on Ophelia’s shoulder. “Fare thee well, my friend, and may the good blood guide your way.”

“And yours as well,” the Hunter agreed, and additionally croaked, “Goodbye, Alfred.”

A stony nod, and he was gone, striding past her. Making for Hemwick Crossing.

Ophelia picked up her weapons, hanging her flamesprayer from her belt and setting Ludwig’s guiding moonlight across her shoulders, both her arms hanging loosely from its ancient, blessed blade.

She turned to see a snatch of the light gray fabric of Alfred’s holy shawl disappear around the corner, knowing somehow that she would never see him again. He would die, or – and, thinking on it, the latter option struck her as more likely – he would go mad.

And _then_ he’d die.

An icy fire flared momentarily in her veins, and she reached down to the pistol holstered at her hip, slipping it free without effort. She raised it to the sky, leveling it at the damnable Moon. She centered the body in her sights, her hands steady. Her marksmanship, she knew, was fine– a snippet of memory, foggy and vague, told her she had once carried a pair of pistols, putting her ambidexterity to good use in what looked like simple target shooting, but which she felt had been something more than recreation.

The partial recollection served only to deepen the feeling of grim determination that had settled in her heart, and she pressed the trigger, letting the pistol bark and spit quicksilver and smoke into the sky.

The weapon’s report rang out louder than it should have, and echoed ‘round the small courtyard in accordance.

She could’ve sworn she felt the earth tremble beneath her feet; the young mage felt her ire had been made known ‘round the world.

She glanced down at herself, double-checking her saw-sword was properly secured in its scabbard, the serrated silver blade, while not a trick weapon, a reliable sidearm for the Hunter.

It was the blade she had impaled Gascoigne on, what seemed like days ago, as his young daughter had looked on in abject horror. The blade that had bitten Henryk enough to allow Eileen to tear him to shreds with her siderite shortswords. Djura had snatched the saw-sword from her when she confronted him for the first time, and had cracked her over the head with its pommel hard enough to knock her unconscious in one stroke.

The devil, she decided, had long since been given his due. He had become greedy, taking and taking and taking.

All doubt was washed from her mind. She would meet the devil, but she would not trade words with him. Would not appease him.

No, she would give him fire and magic and silvered-steel, would teach him why primitive man feared the crack of thunder, the piercing cold, and the teeth of hounds. She would kill him, even if she had to wade through a river of blood to do so.

After all, she was a dreaming Hunter.

What could a mere devil hope to do, when put up against that which could not be defeated? He could not hide; she had all the time in the world. He could not kill her; she would simply rise again, more determined than ever. Now, he couldn’t hope to dissuade her, either, or so she thought.

She would find the fiend, and she would kill the fiend.

Perhaps he hid in the Hunter’s Nightmare – if there was a hell, surely that would be it. Perhaps he resided in the Unseen Village, Yahar’gul. Perhaps he resided upon the moon itself, or even in the Hunter’s Dream.

That last thought in particular struck her. What better place for a demon to hide than that fog-wreathed haven in the heavens? There was, after all, that whole field of flowers, locked off behind a wrought-iron gate, where she suspected Gehrman would go to nap – the old man certainly seemed like he could use the rest, after all.

She would have to ask him where a devil might hide… perhaps she could even inquire with the severed head of Ludwig, still alive and (at least a little) coherent? After that, she could avail herself of the libraries of Byrgenwerth and the Lecture Hall. And maybe Simon, in the Nightmare, would know something?

Master Willem would likely be of no help, of course, mute as he was, though she supposed it was possible she could ask questions with yes or no answers, or quote seemingly-pertinent passages from tomes to him and gauge his response.

It seemed unlikely that any of the people she’d brought to Oedon Chapel would know anything. Eileen was bound to a cot, Gascoigne’s daughter was just a child, the old folks had gone a bit off in the head when the blood moon had risen. Arianna was no scholar – and was sick besides; Adella _might_ know something if Ophe could get her to speak, but, given all she’d been able to elicit from the nun since the blood moon had been manic, anxious giggles… it didn’t seem like a very promising avenue of inquiry.

Over at the Clinic… Iosefka probably wouldn’t know anything, though Ophelia expected she’d gladly help in any way she could, as she had by slipping Ophelia’s summons to Cainhurst to her through the door, back when the sun was still setting, and, of course, by giving the Hunter her very potent, specially-made blood vials. Iosefka’s strange assistant, however… she seemed to be a Church Hunter at the very least, and appeared to be nursing poor, sick Iosefka very competently. Indeed, Ophelia thought the woman might well puzzle out a cure to the beastly scourge.

Gilbert had begun to sound astonishingly better after she’d carried him to the Clinic – his voice had become very raspy, but his cough had all but vanished, and lately he even had the strength to walk about, albeit unsteadily. His skin had turned very pale, almost milky, which Ophelia had to admit was rather disconcerting, but there was life in his eyes, and he seemed keen on helping with the other patients.

Iosefka, too, had become very pale, and her persistent head-cold like symptoms were worrying, but she was able to work at her desk with what seemed like great efficiency, and she always seemed to light up so beautifully when Ophelia came ‘round. At times, the Hunter almost swore the doctor had a heavenly, pale-blue glow about her, but a little delusion was only natural, she figured, when a woman was kissed so sweetly.

It turned out Iosefka was a very good kisser.

Come to think of it, the assistant rather lit up around Ophelia, too, in her own, special way. She acted as if she fancied herself subtly sinister, as if she were experimenting on people, but… the patients Ophe brought her were, save for that weird, shady homeless man, all already infected with the scourge of the beast. They were simply individuals that stuck out to the Hunter as being particularly docile, lucid, or otherwise less completely-lost than the rest of the wandering, bestial huntsmen.

Djura seemed to think that beasts were still people, and while Ophelia had taken that as a philosophical stance, the assistant had been overjoyed when she brought up the idea, and, well, it wasn’t as if Ophelia was opposed to trying to cure the poor souls for some reason. She just-- she’d seen enough to know better than to hold out hope for medicine to completely and cleanly save the day. Any person – make that ‘person’ – who attacked different-looking (normal-looking, in Ophelia’s case) individuals on sight was, she felt, almost certainly too far gone.

For what it was worth, the experiments so far seemed to support her belief – they had been able to halt the advance of the metamorphosis, but they had yet to reverse a transformation. The assistant had been able to change what some of them were turning into, however, and the result had been a handful of little, pale-blue men, most of whom were passive or even complaisant, content to _plap-plap-plap_ around the Clinic without a care in the world. A few of them had been less peaceful – a thought which Ophelia found she almost followed up with an ‘of course,’ as if open and unprovoked hostility was simply a fact of life in Yharnam – and the Hunter had found that thrusting a magical sword through their odd, exceptionally-oversized heads was an effective means of dealing with them.

In fairness, though, she’d found that to be a very effective means to dealing with an awful lot of things. Turns out, most things aren’t made with magical sword stabbings in mind.

Ophelia began to walk back to Oedon Chapel, taking it slow, letting her nerves relax, sinking into a sea of relative calm, where she was merely on-edge. She had, after all, butchered everything in her way during her mad dash to Alfred.

Maybe she could ask that spider guy about the devil. He was a pretty big jerk, and worshiped Amygdala – which, come to think of it, made her wonder: was that because Amygdalae were many-limbed, as were spiders? Initially, she thought that seemed like rather a petty concern to consider when choosing to devote oneself to a god, but- wouldn’t she much rather worship a god who appeared at least relatively humanoid than some sort of monstrous creature which hurt her eyes to observe too closely?

She’d be foolish to deny that a god that looked like what she knew people to look like was much more appealing to her than an Amygdala, and thus decided it would be unfair of her to judge the spidery fellow for having done just that.

Though she did stop to consider that the fellow was very likely not an actual spider, but an entirely unique breed of creature which, most likely due to magic or the influence of some god, but, maybe also just because of some very particular twist of fate which resulted in an odd case of convergent evolution.

Or perhaps spider-like people had existed in a different form before, with a less Human-like head, and selection pressures exerted upon their species included some form of contact with Humans or beings who were used to contact with Humans, resulting in… anthropocephalization?

She decided the term would never catch on, and also that arachnoid peoples with humanoid faces were probably quite uncommon. Still, she could sketch him for Iosefka, and watch the woman’s face as she laughed at Ophelia’s straightforward labeling of the phenomena that had lead to him having a face.

Maybe she could also ask the bastard his name.

As a last resort, she could venture into the labyrinthine catacombs beneath Yharnam, but… she was somewhat loathe to resort to that.

She strode into the Chapel, letting the comforting scent of beast-warding incense wash over her. It seemed so strange, now, to think she had initially found the smell unpleasant. There was a medical component to its fragrance which brought to mind candles lit to ward off insects, and, while it wasn’t a particularly _pretty_ smell, it wasn’t disgusting, and its efficacy in warding off those tainted by the scourge was undeniable. It smelled like safety, and her visits to the Chapel had trained her brain to ratchet all the way down to ‘actually calm’ in response to strong concentrations of the incense.

How’s _that_ for classical conditioning?

Her heartbeat had already reached a regular rate by the time she’d taken the few steps up to the… dais? The raised portion of the Chapel’s floor, where Arianna sat in her fancy dress on her fancy chair, where the hunched, spindly-armed Chapel-Dweller dwelt, and where Eileen sat, now upright, on her simple, wooden cot, while Gascoigne’s little girl napped on it.

Ophelia tugged off her thick leather gloves, setting the pair on the bannister nearest Arianna and leaning her sword against that same portion of the railing, and half-crouched beside the taller woman, who was doubled over in her chair, holding her stomach.

She pressed a palm to Arianna’s forehead, gauging her temperature, and asked, “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh… I’m fine, dear,” she lied.

The Hunter allowed herself a wry smile. “You’re a worse liar than I am. Have you taken blood?”

The woman of the night shook her head, and Ophelia fished a vial of Iosefka’s special blood out of a coat pocket, double-checking the label to make sure she hadn’t accidentally grabbed something else. Better safe than sorry, after all.

She pressed her hand to Arianna’s forehead again, as if in the vain hope the woman’s fever had miraculously gone down of its own accord. “Do you take with the left or right leg?”

Arianna smiled weakly. “Either’s fine, dear.”

Ophelia nodded, and went to inject the ailing woman before realizing that she really oughtn’t just plunge needles through peoples’ nice dresses if she could help it.

Of course, that meant giving the injection _under_ the dress, a prospect which quickly rendered the moonlit Hunter somewhat red in the cheeks. “I- I’m going to lift up your dress, if that’s alright.”

Even out of sorts as she was, the lady of the night pounced on that with the verbal equivalent of feline grace, purring, “Goodness! To think you’ve become so bold, darling...”

The Hunter lifted the fabric of the lovely red dress, struggling not to scrunch it up too badly while also trying not to look overmuch at the soft, milky flesh of Arianna’s thigh, a process complicated by her need to make sure she was making the injection in the proper place. Still, she was a practiced hand at this, and seemed to have prior medical knowledge – though she couldn’t piece together much information beyond that apparent fact, of course – and she administered the blood quickly and cleanly, causing Arianna to perk up before she had even escaped her place between the woman’s thighs.

She eased the dress back down, and Arianna smoothed it out with the palm of a hand, offering a small, restrained smile.

“Thank you, dear. Not everyone would be so worried over a whore’s queasiness.”

Ophelia frowned at that, but knew better by now than to argue with her – she may have been a bit scrawny, but Arianna was a willful woman, and, if she were to be honest, Ophelia could relate to that. She wasn’t exactly the strongest woman to ever walk the earth.

She offered Arianna her canteen, saying, “Drink. As much as you need. I learned a spell to refill the thing with fresh water – any container you actually drink from, really, but it has to be one you drink from directly, else it won’t work.” She shrugged, half to herself. “You can’t fool magic, I guess.”

The blonde drained the canteen, which had been about half-full. Ophelia did the little incantation and coin flip to cast her cantrip, filling the tin with cool, clear water, and Arianna drained it again, prompting another filling. She took another few pulls, leaned back in her chair, and let out a deep breath. She passed the canteen back to its owner, who screwed the cap back on and hooked it back onto her belt, wondering if she should look for a bigger one.

“I’ll get you some medicine next time I go to the Clinic, alright?”

Arianna nodded, letting her eyes drift closed, seemingly more comfortable than Ophelia had seen her in a fair while… but she was still favoring her stomach, and her face was still flush with fever – or else hot-flash.

“You’re a saint, Ophe,” she breathed. After a moment, she added, “Tell the little girl she’s alright to come sit and read with me again, would you, dear?”

A bright smile tried to worm its way across the Hunter’s face, and, once she realized she was holding it back for some reason, she let it pass. “I’ll do that. And- you’re going to be fine.”

She paused, then quipped, “Iosefka’s the most competent doctor I’ve ever shared a bed with.”

Arianna covered her mouth and nose to muffle a snort. “As your friend, I’m afraid I’m required to ask that you give me all the details sometime.”

“Well, if you’re required to, I can scarcely say no, now can I?”

Spirits lifted, Ophelia turned and crossed the room, not bothering to gather her sword and gloves, and knelt before her wounded mentor. She withdrew a vial, this one of Adella’s blood – good for healing, as its potency was somewhat uniquely drawn-out – and unceremoniously injected the older woman’s thigh with it.

Eileen had called herself an old woman a few times, and, though Ophelia could see the rationale behind it – hunting at thirty or forty was much, much different from working any normal job at that age – she still found it odd. Almost as odd as it was to see the Crow’s face, to see the ever-so-slight crow’s feet around her keen, gray eyes.

Her… _master?_ Ophelia wasn’t sure how this sort of relationship worked, really – it was her first time having a mentor, she knew that intuitively and with certainty – but she felt like her master wasn’t supposed to be so… weirdly attractive? The accent didn’t help. Or _did_ help, depending on your perspective. It very much helped in giving her feelings she really didn’t need to be feeling on a night of the Hunt, much less about a woman with at least a decade on her, maybe even two if one really wished to stretch it – and it was very much not lost on Ophelia that if Eileen had two decades on her, the older woman would be twice her age.

“You’ve gotten quite good with your magic, haven’t you, girl?”

“Mmh.” Ophelia nodded. “I’d like to think so. How’re your wounds, _old lady_?”

The former Hunter of Hunters chuckled softly, shaking her head, making her hair swish from side to side in a gentle sort of undulation that caught Ophe’s eye. There was far, far more pepper in the woman’s hair than there was salt, if you’ll pardon the colloquialism – Ophelia certainly knew better than to think of it as _raven_ hair, and had spent enough time with Eileen that she could probably have written at least a page on why crows were much smarter and much sweeter birds, and the real crow-ning jewel of family _Corvidae_ , and ‘ _Don’t even get me started on jays and magpies, girl,’_ and _‘I suppose jackdaws are alright, but you’ll notice I don’t dress like one.’_

“Better than the last time you asked, worse than they will be the next time you ask, _little girl_ ,” Eileen said dryly. There was a moment’s hesitation before she indicated the sleeping little girl by tilting her head in the child’s direction. “She doesn’t blame you, Ophelia. For what happened to Gascoigne. She knew what was comin’.”

Ophelia closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath. “I-” She started-and-stopped, and tried again, this time managing to hit her stride and speak. “I know. I just… he seemed fine on the bridge, you know? But she told me he’d forget them when she gave me the music box – which they’d apparently used at least a few times to soothe him.” She sighed. “And, after we dealt with Henryk, you said he’d been falling apart-”

With a grunt, Eileen sat forward, placing a hand on Ophelia’s head. “Since you brought it up – I _am_ sorry about that. Not doing a better job of reassuring you, I mean. _‘I’m sure it had to be done.’_ is hardly… it doesn’t inspire as much confidence as I’d hoped it would.”

“It’s true that you didn’t exactly sound certain, but… you couldn’t have _been_ certain.” She pressed up against her mentor’s petting hand unconsciously. “You weren’t there to see him go from crazy to lycanthropic in sixty seconds. I can see how you might feel like it could have come across the wrong way, and you’d be right, because it could have. But it _wasn’t_.”

Eileen ruffled the younger woman’s silvery hair. “That’s good to hear,” she said, relief evident in her voice, “and I’ll be certain next time.”

Ophelia’s face fell, and she dipped a hand into her pocket and fingered the tiny Tonitrus she’d found in Yahar’gul. It was certainly neat, and very effective in situations that called for a whole lot of lightning in not a lot of time, but the thing was voracious, using up five or six shots worth of blood and quicksilver to generate a single of its shocking ‘special deliveries’. Frankly, it was a little surprising just how rarely a series of tiny lightning strikes would _actually_ come in handy. No, the real value of the thing, she’d found, was– well, the mechanism by which it changed size was unknown to Ophelia, but it was really quite something. But, enough getting sidetracked. Its real value was in its fine craftsmanship, and the gentle vibration it made after it had been rubbed a little, just enough to be felt even through gloves. Brushing it in different ways produced different, but seemingly consistent results, and she had already found that the stimulus was enough to take her mind off of things without any meaningful risk of it seizing her full attention.

A valuable Hunter Tool indeed.

“I had hoped there wouldn’t be a next time,” Ophelia finally said.

Eileen shrugged her shoulders, and, as if it were a hangman’s joke, said, “A Hunter must _hunt_.”

Expression hardening, Ophe retorted, “You aren’t a Hunter anymore.”

Silence hung heavy in the air between them, persisting until Eileen leaned back against the Chapel’s stone wall and changed the subject. “That blood-drunk-- how’d you deal with him, girl?”

Green eyes darted sideways to glance at the Holy Moonlight Sword leaned up against the hand-rail. “My cause is just,” the Hunter said, flashing an uncharacteristically wicked grin, “my will is strong… and my sword is very, very large.”

Eileen studied the younger woman briefly, uncertain how she ought to take that. Uncertain what to make of the vicious gleam in the girl’s eye. Even when she was just a fledgling, Ophelia had moved and fought almost as if she’d been bred to do so. But she had never shown even the slightest inclination towards beasthood, never been driven mad by the arcane or the eldritch. She was as merciless as was necessary, and found herself swept up in the reverie of purification and slaughter from time to time, as any Hunter was liable to, but, immersed though she had been, she never lost herself. Kept herself grounded.

Eileen had no doubt about the girl’s will being strong.

So what was that spark? Certainly Ophelia hadn’t snapped. Her vulnerability had always been the way she let herself get emotionally entangled, or so Eileen had figured, but that entanglement also provided her with a reserve of strength to borrow from, didn’t it? The girl needed people to care for. They were a risk, but she was emotionally weak herself, and they fed into her resolve – and, worst-case, Eileen supposed they were there pick up the pieces.

Had that been satisfaction, then? The gratification of having slain the man who had nearly killed the girl’s friend and theoretical mentor? Revenge? Justice?

As if answering her master’s thoughts, Ophelia made a vague sort of gesture and said, “I was really expecting him to send me to tatters, but I really dominated him. He didn’t stand a chance. I knocked him flat with the Augur, and the fight was over – it just took a bit for it to realize.”

Eileen pulled a face. “Is that the-”

“The tentacle thing, yes.”

“I don’t like it,” the Crow said, just in case her distaste wasn’t clear as day.

“Yeah? Well, _I_ don’t like _your_ creepy bird mask,” Ophelia replied.

Again, silence.

When Eileen spoke again, her voice was soft. Tender. “You really don’t like it?”

_O gods, be merciful._

“It’s...” Ophe’s voice caught in her throat. “It’s a little scary,” she admitted sheepishly.

“I suppose it is,” the older woman agreed with a chuckle. “Speakin’ of scary-” She leaned forward, then, and peered closely at her mentee – which, coincidentally, she wasn’t entirely convinced was a real word. She reached out and cupped the side of Ophelia’s head, lacing her fingers through the girl’s hair for purchase and idly noting the way the girl flushed pink as if expecting a doctor to plant one on her.

Eileen would be sure to tease the poor thing about that later.

“’old still,” murmured the Crow, and the young Hunter squirmed a little as Eileen licked the pad of her thumb. “You’ve blood in your eyelashes, girl.”

Ophelia made her understanding known with a simple, “ _Mmh_ ,” a gentle noise of acknowledgment made with her throat – was it a hum? Eileen wasn’t quite sure what to call that… utterance? That sound, rather.

Linguistic struggles aside, the pale-haired Hunter’s eyes fluttered closed obediently, and Eileen cleaned them gently, using water from the girl’s canteen – she hadn’t thought to do that the first time, but if a whole giant’s worth of blood didn’t hurt her, an old woman’s spit wouldn’t, either – to rinse and re-wet her thumb. She carefully cleaned Ophelia’s eyelids, got the dried ichor out of the creases of her eyes, and rubbed the girl’s eyebrows until they were that nice silvery-white color again.

The strange, blobby little fellow who oversaw the Chapel tossed the rav- _dark-haired_ woman a neatly-folded handkerchief, and she snatched it from the air with all the deftness one could reasonably expect of a woman who had hunted Hunters with a twin – _sibling?_ – swords. She nodded her thanks, and he made a dismissive gesture with his long, spindly hand, as if to say, _‘Think nuffin’ of it.’_

The Chapel Dweller was a strange lad to be sure, but Eileen had dressed like a bird for long enough to know that looking a little odd, if anything, was an indication that one was sane enough to at least be coherent. Perhaps it was something to do with having a stronger sense of self? Then again, it could’ve just as easily been the fact that strange people tended to be avoided in this town, and… that wasn’t a bad thing, really, when one took into account the rampant lycanthropy and so on.

Ophelia hummed – actually hummed, this time – as her master began to dry her face. The tune was one unfamiliar to Eileen, but, though both were (to the chagrin of many a Yharnamite) ‘outsiders,’ they didn’t happen to be from the same place; it was probably a song from the girl’s home. And, knowing how the girl’s memory – or lack thereof, really – troubled her?

The old Crow didn’t bother her companion with questions she knew she couldn’t answer.

When she had finished cleaning the girl’s face, she clicked her tongue. There was blood behind Ophelia’s ears, and also _everywhere else_.

“Go back to the Dream, girl. You’re filthy, and I’m sure you could use a rest.” She tousled the hair she’d laced her fingers through and released Ophelia from her grasp.

The Hunter eyed the lantern which stood, surrounded by four wrinkly lil’ top-hat wearing Messengers, in the center of Chapel’s raised floor, shedding its soft, purplish glow on the floor around it. Her way home – to the Hunter’s Dream. Eileen, she decided, was right. A visit to the peaceful island, high, high above, in the sea-that-was-the-sky, would do her good.

Briefly, she considered that there might be a connection between her penchant for the arcane and her easy acclimation to such a lofty plane. Not because she was a Dreaming Hunter, but because the Dream agreed with her so. Perhaps she had some sort of predisposition which made her inclined towards the supernatural? Some aspect of her being that made it so easy for her to learn how to fill canteens with coin tosses. Of course, she also had to wonder just how common it was for Hunters to particularly like or dislike the Dream – Eileen seemed to have disliked it, but Ophe hadn’t had the chance to ask much of anyone else about it. She’d bring it up to Djura later, maybe.

“I will,” she said, sitting up on her knees and planting a kiss on her senior’s forehead, “Just let me give Adella her sedatives, and I’ll head… home?”

Eileen wore a small smile. “Try to get some sleep while you’re there, if you can.”

Ophelia rose to her feet, nodding. “I will.”

“Good girl. And may your dreams be full of pretty doctors.”

“And yours devoid of – gods forbid – magpies,” Ophelia wryly replied, already turning, fishing around in her pockets for that bottle of medicine.

She found it and strode down the steps and over to the poor nun. For whatever reason, she felt a strong sense of kinship with her, and it was rather unnerving for Ophelia to see Adella in her sorry, giggly state. “Come, now, Sister,” she soothed, double-checking that the dosage was two spoonfuls, then offering the first of the two to the maddened Blood Saint, “Take your medicine. The prioress isn’t here, now, but she’d want you well, don’t you think?”

Adella’s wild eyes darted all over what Ophelia assumed was her own face, or else the room at large, but, after a moment or two, she parted her lips and obediently took her medicine. The second spoonful was easier, and soon she was putting the stopper back into the bottle and tucking it away again, whereupon she gave the nun’s shoulder what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

“Feel better soon.”

The old woman across the room raised her voice in crazy praise, saying, “Oh, dear, you’ve always been so good with nuns.”

Once more, Ophelia was struck by something – the sentiment, this time. Part of her thought that perhaps the old dear had said something not only shockingly lucid, but pertinent, perhaps even prescient.

 _...Postscient_?

She had thought that she might have been a soldier of some sort, before, but… had she been part of some kind of religious organization?

“I get the feeling I’ve made something of a _habit_ of dealing with them,” Ophelia joked, only… was it still a joke if it was potentially true?

She figured it was. It was just… layered, is all.

The old lady cackled gleefully as Ophelia walked back to the lantern, pausing only at the top of the steps – to stuff her gloves in a coat pocket and hoist her sword over her shoulder – on her way. She knelt before it, reached towards the infinite depths of its unnatural light, and dematerialized in white light and a puddle of black ichor.

She arose within the deepest of Dreams, almost as high as the great pillars which pierced the unconscious sky, and basked in the sensation of utter cleanliness, the commute from the waking world having wiped away the blood and grime and mended any new damage to her clothing. The cobbled path beneath her boots was comfortingly familiar, and she followed the short path up towards the stairs leading into the Workshop. At their base was a low rise, a… shelf, a platform, upon which sat a living Doll, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and steady in sleep.

Ophelia found this to be very precious and cute, but the sight had also reminded her body how long it had been since she had last sought rest in any meaningful way, and weariness began to seep into her bones. How many had died since she last rested her eyes? She wasn’t sure.

Rubbing her eyes, she decided that the Doll had the right idea, and pulled herself onto the small outcrop. She set her hat to the side and took off her belt, which she rolled up and set aside as well, because holsters and scabbards and flamethrowers weren’t nice things to sleep on. The rest, she couldn’t be bothered with – she didn’t even unlace her boots.

Just curled up with her blessed greatsword and let her eyes drift closed.


End file.
